


Cooking With 'Quisy

by JENderQueer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Cooking, Coping, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21637399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JENderQueer/pseuds/JENderQueer
Summary: Cole didn't need to eat, but sometimes he would steal a bite of pie or bread from Varric's plate and beam at their companions. Varric would complain theatrically, grinning all the while. If anyone noticed the Inquisitor's fond smile, they would put it down to her friends' antics. They'd be half right.***When Inquisitor Lavellan begins freezing up in the War Room she knows she has to find coping mechanisms so she can continue to do the work that needs doing.***No specific ship here. Fluffy interactions with just about every companion and advisor so feel free to apply your own ship(s) or see it as aro/ace, whatever works for you.
Relationships: Inquisitor & Companions (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everything is Much. Cullen helps. So does Cole.

She hadn't meant to lead the Inquisition. There was work to be done and she was _literally_ the only person in Thedas who could do it. You do the work that needs doing, that was all. Then suddenly she was in charge of an army and spies and solving international disputes? The issue of the rifts was huge with disastrous potentially world-ending consequences, but it wasn't particularly complicated? It had to be done, and it had to be done by her, so she did it.

The title of Herald hadn't sat well with her - it felt like a cruel joke to be named the messenger to the mortal bride of a god she didn't believe in and whose followers had cost her people so much despite all Andraste's last elven champion had done. She wondered if she would share a similar fate as Shartan, to die for them only to have the promises made to her abandoned and the very word of her deeds become heresy. The title of  _ Inquisitor _ felt less barbed, at least, but so much heavier.

* * *

The first time she had felt herself begin to freeze up in the War Room, she had abruptly dismissed herself and all but fled to the newly excavated garden. Cullen, of all people, had found her squatting against the wall behind some shrubs, burying her fingers and toes in the dirt. He had leant casually beside her and looked up at the sky as he talked about how poorly he had handled inheriting the role of Knight-Commander in all but name. How Kirkwall had been a mess so he too had done the work that needed doing, but spent most nights staring at the walls of his office just thinking one phrase: "what the fuck?" She'd never heard him swear before and couldn't hold back her burst of laughter. He had smiled then and begun to tell tales of some of the hilariously bad decisions and coping mechanisms of himself and his fellow templars; he'd even teased that she'd met one or two of them and that their identities might surprise her. He'd talked and she'd unfurled, and when he'd offered his hand to help her up she'd surprised him with a hug to accompany her thanks. Not that plate armour was ideal for hugging but he'd blushed and flustered and she'd left feeling better about her reaction, if not the feelings that had prompted it.

* * *

The next few times, she'd been able to catch herself in time to politely request they reconvene in an hour or two before asking if Cullen could spare some time to join her in the garden. He'd always responded with a reassuring smile and a soft "of course, Inquisitor."

He'd told her stories of recruit's youthful antics, occasionally taking a fondly exasperated tone that she came to believe referred to one smart-mouthed and accident prone individual; she'd wondered if he was one of those she'd supposedly met. When enough of the tension in her body had eased and she could think again without a flood of panic, she'd offered her thanks and a hug which he'd returned with diminishing hesitation. When they were back in the War Room afterwards, she'd felt more equipped to do the work that needed doing.

* * *

After the 5th time, she'd decided that she needed to be more proactive. Some of these decisions she needed to make were time sensitive. While a diplomatic missive might benefit from an extra few hours to clear her head and give a more considered response, there were just as many occasions where such a delay would cost lives.

She'd sought out Cole. Or rather: she'd thought about seeking him out and had found him cross legged in front of her fire. His particular brand of cryptic kindness had been useful in helping her make connections she would have otherwise missed, and so she'd hoped he could bring her insight into how she might prevent her panic attacks rather simply cope with their aftermath. She'd asked him not to make her forget even if he got it wrong, insisting that there were still things she could learn from mistakes. He hadn't understood, but she'd trusted that he'd abide by her wishes. Despite the misgivings of several of her companions she'd grown close to the strange spirit-boy, fond and protective; she couldn't imagine him a demon. _Surely no demon would be so adamant that they be destroyed if they crossed the line?_

They had talked into the night. Sometimes she'd cried and he had held her. Other times he'd laid his head in her lap, his hat on his chest, as she'd run her fingers through his hair. They'd talked about how she'd felt, why she'd felt that way, her clan and why she had really left, their companions and her advisors and her reluctance to confide in them even as she'd coaxed and encouraged them to do so with her… all the things she'd been avoided talking or even thinking about wherever possible.

By the time dawn approached, she was exhausted and emotionally wrung out: but she had a  _ plan. _

Cole slipped out, leaving her sleeping at sunrise. Her staff hadn't roused her until the afternoon, firm in the belief that she'd needed her rest though none of them could say exactly why… 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan ponders the problem of Bigness, gathers the pieces she needs for her plan, and shares a moment of quiet with the Tempest.

She'd decided that Sera had the right of it with her talk about Big and Little. If Lavellan felt that everything was too Big, she needed to remind herself how it felt to be Little before she lost herself in the Bigness.  _ Like how the dwarves who leave Orzammar fear falling into the sky? _ If she kept her "stone sense" - her connection to being Little - it would help her stay grounded.  _ Right? _

Acquiring nondescript clothing was easy enough: her travels took her plenty of places where poor refugees could be persuaded to trade for far more coin and food than a shabby dress was worth, and she had the raw materials for them to replace it with something new if they were so inclined. Of course that also meant that she could make one ( _ if I wasn't an absolute embarrassment at making clothes _ ) or have something requisitioned ( _ too many questions _ ) but she felt firmly that it needed to be worn if her plan was to work. Between Leliana and the Iron Bull, spies had become part of her daily life and it made her consider things she'd never had been concerned about before.  _ See, this is what I mean: too Big _ .

Next was the vallaslin. Nobody looked twice at a bare-faced knife-ear servant; but the Dalish didn't serve ( _ never again shall we submit _ ), they allied. They were scouts and soldiers and spies, scholars and teachers and advisors, traders and artisans, healers and warriors. They worked for a common purpose, not for fear of a beating. Creators, how she hated the shems who treated elves as little more than drudges. How she hated that so many elves believed it to be true. Still, she'd spent days experimenting mixing muds and mashed plants to find the right consistency and colour to blend in with her skin when painted over her vallaslin.

Then she'd watched them. The elven servants she saw on her travels (like prey animals, she could almost understand why Orlesians called them rabbits, but who could blame them, so surrounded by lions and wolves), those who'd survived Haven (so shaken by the events there, still too recent), most especially those who'd joined at Skyhold (seeking service as much as sanctuary). How they moved, how they stood, how they spoke. She was pleased to note that while many of the newcomers were timid yet hopeful, most soon grew a measure of confidence. Indeed, no small amount of Leliana's agents had started out as serving elves who had shown both talent and curiosity. Perhaps it was the fact that she was an elf - an elf with an  _ army _ , who commanded  _ shemlen _ , who had the fear and respect of _ nobles  _ \- that drew them here, hoping one of their own would be a better master than the cruel or simply indifferent shems they'd served before. Perhaps they would have come anyway, if another had been proclaimed Andraste's Herald. Either way she'd made certain that her people (when had she started thinking of the Inquisition as  _ her people _ ?) knew that any who wished to serve were to be welcomed, any who wished to learn were to be trained, and any who wished to be a bigoted  _ dahn'direlan _ would be out on their ears no matter the shape before you could say "void take you." Still she hoped that the main reasons they came were her actions, not what she might represent. If they were following because of her choices, maybe she wouldn't have to let them down.

"Oi. Creepy. I'm all for people watching, right, but you're looking the wrong way. No-one Little wants to feel eyes that Big on their back."

"Is that an elfiness joke?"

"What?" Sera laughed. "Never even thought of that, nice one. But seriously, you're gonna start scaring people and yeah that's one way to be Big but it's also one way to get a pie to the face from a pissed off Jenny. Friendly warning, yeah? Pie free."

"Sorry. I just…" she sighed and sagged dramatically against the battlements, "I miss being Little? If I hadn't been at the conclave I'd be down there with them."

"Nah, don't be daft." The archer plopped down unceremoniously next to her. "You'd be out  _ there _ , one of Leliana's shadows or Cullen's swords. Ugh, don't think about his sword. Point is, most of this lot only know how to be one thing - and it's great you've got them learning they can be other things too if they want, 'stead of just shoving a knife in their hand and saying "you're a soldier now, go die for my glory" or whatever - but you're too many things to be just one. You'd always be thinking there's more you could do."

"You think so?"

"Look, I know people. People are great. Except when they're shite. You're not that kind of people."

"Because I'm Of The People?" Lavellan grinned.

"Ugh," the motley clad elf shoved her, "don't ruin it!" But the mock disgust quickly fell away to an answering grin.

They sat leaning against each other in amiable silence, two forces of nature sharing a moment of peace before the inevitable restlessness set in.

"Hey, Sera?"

"Yeah?"

"What kind of pie?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dahn'direlan - idiot, moron lit. bee-puncher, one who punches bees


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan's first test has Mixed Results.

She'd found a corner of the keep that had yet to be renovated, close to the kitchen, and applied her disguise with the aid of a hand mirror. It was late and the night was dark, all the better for her test run. She had visited the kitchens at night as Inquisitor to scope them out, and knew that this area was usually inhabited by early risers rather than night owls. But they were also prone to midnight raids by friendly forces, and while the guards may pretend not to notice the Inquisitor or her inner circle she had no idea if a serving elf at this late hour would be considered worth their attention. But it wasn't as though she was available for such activities at normal hours. She slipped from her hiding place with the light-footed grace of the Dalish and tried to project the anxious air of a new addition to the kitchen staff roused to work, rather than someone involved in clandestine activities, as she scurried to her destination. Gripping the bucket she carried like a talisman, she approached the well and began to draw water. She felt eyes on her but no deeper scrutiny or subtle shifting to indicate challenge, curiosity, or worse: deference. Pail filled, she made her way up the stairs to the kitchen.

She lit a candle and surveyed the empty room. It was clean and clear, and she'd found herself both relieved and daunted at the prospect of getting straight to grappling with the oven rather than fussing around with cleaning. She'd never used an oven before, not like this. Her clan cooked in and over pits of fire or heated rocks, not heavy stoves of metal that would weigh down their aravels. She approached cautiously, mentally chastised herself for being intimidated by an  _ oven _ when she so regularly faced down  _ demons _ , and began to inspect the iron ranges. The mechanics of the things themselves seemed fairly easy to puzzle out, but the recipes she knew weren't cooked this way and would require experimentation with regards to time and temperature. If they even worked at all.  _ Perhaps I should try a cookbook…? _ Until then, hearthcakes sufficed. They were simple to make, it would be easy for her to see what worked ( _ or didn't _ ), and the sweet treats kept well even if they were best warm. Besides, those were the ingredients she'd asked Cole to stow secretly for her. She wouldn't use Inquisition resources for her… nocturnal exploits ( _ Creators, that sounds seedy _ ), not when she was regularly in possession of more coin than her clan would see in a lifetime. And having her spirit friend play delivery boy helped prevent attention or awkward questions.

She lit the oven, retrieved her hidden provisions, and set to work. The familiar scents of spices and halla butter filled her with longing for what she'd left behind, making her heart ache bittersweetly.  _ Definitely try a cookbook next _ . Before long, the mix was ready for the oven. Technically they should be cooked on a griddle but the practicalities of that were universal enough that she didn't need to experiment and she wanted to familiarise herself with this new contraption before attempting breads or pies. With the cakes baking, she hummed a song to count the time as she cleaned up after herself. Her lips pressed into a dissatisfied line when she retrieved the too-dark, too-hard fruits of her labour. Still, they were edible and could pass for honeyed travel biscuits. She let them cool as she began again. The second batch, timed with a shorter song, was better. The third was like going home. Tears spilled over her cheeks, smudging the carefully applied coverings of her vallaslin ( _ shit _ ). She swallowed the mouthful of memories and scrubbed away the remainder of her 'make up' with her sleeve - as remarkable as a Dalish working in a shem kitchen was, one obviously hiding her vallaslin would be suspicious enough to bring to Leliana. Sister Nightingale would see through her with a glance. Eyes still stubbornly streaming, she extinguished the fire and let the oven cool as she packed up her initial attempt, wrapping the stiff disks in wax paper and stowing them in a jar with a note to have them sent to Scout Harding. The next she hid among the day-old goods that she knew would be dispensed among Skyhold's servants. The final results, however, she gathered onto a plate before brushing out the cinders in the plinking range and resetting the kitchen as she'd found it. Pouring a little of the water she'd fetched earlier into a cup, she used the rest to scrub away all other evidence of her efforts this night. Then she gave herself a quick wipe down before getting changed, now that her disguise was all but useless. Thankfully she'd also had the foresight to stash a set of her nightclothes at the bottom of the sack of ingredients. She switched out her clothing and pulled her hair into a loose braid, then kicked the significantly smaller bag back into its hiding place. Using her magic to heat the water in her cup she prepared a soothing herbal tea, stuffing two more hearthcakes into her mouth like a guilty secret. This time she didn't cry, but her eyes felt hot and tired. She cast a small wisp of light to dance around her and illuminate her steps and snuffed out the remains of her candle. She didn't need to hide if she was simply the sleepless Inquisitor completing a midnight raid of her keep's kitchen. Padding through the lower levels of the slumbering Skyhold, she bumped into Sera sneaking towards the kitchen and sent a silent thanks to the Creators for her timing.

"Cookies?" The decidedly and deliberately unelfy elf's nose wrinkled as she inspected the plate through the dim werelight.

"Cakes," Lavellan offered.

"Friggin' sweet!" She swiped a handful and ran off before the Inquisitor could protest, seemingly heedless of the part where they had been freely given, a fondly exasperated smile following her back.

When the Dalish mage reached the main hall, guards pulling themselves swiftly to attention, rather than heading straight for her tower, she hesitated. Solas wasn't Dalish and had made his feelings about her people abundantly clear, but so had Sera for that matter. Yet she interacted with so few elves now. She was "Inquisitor" not "lethallan" and, with the taste of home on her lips, she wanted… something. Connection? She detoured briefly to the rotunda, leaving a small stack of honeyed hearthcakes on his desk before returning to her room, stopping only to slip a cake into the hand of each guard she passed - an established game, a grinning wink and an illicit treat the price of 'silence' through the ill-kept secret of the nocturnal raids of the Inquisition's upper echelons.

Wrapping herself in a pelt to ward off the night's chill, she sat on her balcony, drank her tea, and finished off her few remaining cakes. She let herself feel her sadness and longing, as Cole had suggested, not crushing it down until it formed a "pearl of pain." She hadn't expected to be so affected by such a small thing, but it had been so long and the circumstances of her leaving the clan had been… strained. Tears fell, and she allowed it, until finally they stopped of their own accord. She felt wrung out, tired to her core. As she climbed into bed, she filed away the results of her test as inconclusive and resolved to acquire a cookbook for future attempts. She dreamed of halla, hearth, and home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So. An elf, a human, a qunari, and a devastatingly handsome dwarf go to the Hinterlands…"

Varric was openly full of shit, but the charismatic dwarf knew how to tell a story. More importantly, he knew how to _sell_ a story - which was why he and Cassandra were not currently on speaking terms. After _entirely too long_ of this, Lavellan had resolved to get him out of throttling distance before the Right Hand did something regrettable. And so she'd taken him, Dorian, and Bull off to wander the Hinterlands and deliver an important lesson about harassing refugees: Don't. The Kirkwall native had seen his share of desperate Fereldens preyed upon, she thought it might be therapeutic for him to shoot some assholes intent on doing the same - particularly with his friend so close in his thoughts.

She walked at the head of their party, insisting on the uncharacteristically quiet rogue's help in scouting for trouble. When he'd asked why _him_ and not the _Ben-Hassrath_ who'd served in _Seheron_ , she'd flashed him a grin and said she didn't want to interrupt their date. Varric had chuffed soft amusement. Behind them the Tevinter needled the Qunari who in turn responded by gently dismissing the bait, mildly delivering devastating insight with pinpoint accuracy, or making suggestions so lurid they flustered the mage into stuttering Tevene curses. Listening to their banter - which paused only for acts of bear and Dorian's pointed sulking - seemed to unknot the tension in the dwarf's shoulders, bit by bit. By the time they'd reached their first campsite, Varric had recovered some of his usual swagger and bet her a gold they'd share a tent at least once before they'd returned to Skyhold. She'd taken the bet, reasoning that the pampered ( _what was it?_ ) _altus_ loathed camping. Varric countered that if he was already roughing it he may as well "go the whole Bull." The dwarf grinned at the unrestrained laughter that shook the elf to her core and earned them glares from three suspicious eyes when they refused to share the joke.

Camp with Varric meant another round of a game she'd come to enjoy. She'd ask about Bianca, and he'd lie to her. Then they'd make appropriately solemn or admiring conversation about the tale as though either of them believed it was true. The game always ended in laughter - his, hers, often both. Mirth suited him and she was pleased to see him return to his element. Varric had been the first to treat her like a _person_ after the Conclave. Not a villain, not a saviour, not a curiosity: a **person**. He'd offered aid and friendship, he'd made no demands. He'd lied openly and smiled appreciatively when she had done the same, not yet ready to reveal the wounds she bore. He'd draped a blanket around her shoulders when he'd found her staring into the fire after a nightmare, told her that Marchers stick together and they'd laughed because that wasn't how the Free Marches worked _at all_. With everything she'd been through and everything she wasn't telling, he'd dubbed her "Lucky" and she'd rolled her eyes and smirked because _of course_ that's what he'd call her. They'd fallen quickly into a firm friendship. One of honest affection and laughter. What did it matter if most of the actual words were lies?

After a few days of bickering, mirth, and several raids on suspiciously well-supplied "bandit" camps; they tracked the mercenaries responsible to a villa that could only laughably be called a fortress. They'd snuck around to approach from the rear.

("Sloppy, letting us get this close. My boys could've taken us out ten times over by now. These guys deserve everything that's coming to 'em.")

("They _deserved_ it when they started _fucking with the refugees_.")

("Well, yeah. They're assholes, but they didn't have to be _sloppy_ assholes.")

(" _Bull…_ ")

("Sorry, Boss")

When they struck it was like the wrath of the heavens. Fire and lightning and arrows rained down from the sky, while the lone close combat fighter made sure the action stayed at a comfortable range for the rest of the party. The mages, of course, kept their warrior properly bolstered with barriers and such so that he could revel in the primal nature of the battle without getting much more than slightly singed. Bianca, as always, did Varric proud and he hummed happily as their merry band mercilessly murdered the malicious mercenaries.

With the carnage complete, Bull had begun laughing and growling to himself about _how fucking_ **_hot_ ** it was to be fighting in the middle of a storm like that. The Inquisitor shared a look with her dwarven friend as Dorian remarked that he hadn't seen the Qunari at this level of manic _glee_ since the high dragon… 

"Taarsidath-an halsaam?" Lavellan smirked.

"Damn right, Boss! That was **fun**!"

"Looks like I'm gonna a gold richer by tomorrow, Lucky."

"I still say Skyhold."

"What in the Maker's name are you two on about?"

"Nothing," they lied in unison.

Their task completed, the party headed for home.


End file.
